by Rick Polad
I leaned on the car and watched them walk up the stairs to the front porch. The place never changed. At least it never seemed to. Maybe I just didn’t want it to. The same flowers were in the window planters, the same rockers were scattered along the wide porch that wrapped around three sides of the white building, and the same cat slept on the cushion of the wicker chair by the door. As I watched, Maxine pulled away from Aunt Rose and ran back to me.
She threw her arms around me and almost knocked me over. When she leaned back there were tears in her eyes. “Spencer... I... I can’t believe I’m here. This can’t be real.”
I wiped her tears with my finger and pinched her arm.
“Ouch!”
“Yup. It’s real.”
She rubbed her arm with a smile on her face. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“No need. You’re doing us a favor. Aunt Rose really needs some help. I think you two will get along fine.”
“I think so too. She is such a sweet lady.”
She looked at me and started to cry again.
“Hey. I just wiped all those off.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry. This is just so amazing. I don’t know why you did this for me.”
“Because you are a wonderful lady and you deserve a break and so does Rose.”
“Thanks, Spencer.”
“You are welcome.”
She gave me a kiss on the cheek and started back up the hill. She stopped and tentatively turned back.
“You didn’t tell her, did you?” It was more a statement than a question.
I shook my head. “No reason to. I told her all she needs to know and that is that you have a good heart and you are my friend.”
She slowly shook her head. “You are amazing.”
“No. I’m not. But sometimes life is. Now get, before I start blubbering too.” Didn’t want to lose my tough guy nickname.
I watched her make her way back up the hill. Then I tucked the crutches under my arms and half tripped and skidded down the hill and across the road to an old, faded-green wooden bench next to the rocks at the edge of the harbor.
A duck swam at the water’s edge looking for food. Leaning the crutches against the side of the bench, I sat and took a deep breath. That old fishy smell brought back a flood of memories of days spent with nothing more important to do than watch the clouds drift by.
The sputter of an outboard engine brought me back to reality and thoughts of the last couple of weeks.
I figured I had done pretty well. I had found the father. And, despite breaking a few laws, I had helped Stosh get information he needed to bust the drug ring, and I had solved Elizabeth’s murder. Not bad for my first case. You’d think for all that I’d have more to show for it than meatloaf and a couple of pieces of chocolate cake. Oh well. I was feeling pretty good till I started to think about the wake of sadness all this had left.
Elizabeth, Louise, Ronny, and Bobby were dead. As far as I was concerned, Louise and Ronny had gotten what they deserved. Life had dealt Elizabeth a bad hand. Falling in love had led to an early grave. Bobby was an innocent bystander caught up in Ronny's schemes.
The Mayor was left with a pretty empty life and a lot of guilt. And there were so many “ifs”. If only he had leveled with his wife about the children and the vasectomy. If only love were more important than money. If only Ronny hadn’t been so greedy and had not burgled the safe. If only Louise hadn’t come home and surprised him before he could close it, leaving the evidence of Marty behind. And, if only Elizabeth hadn’t felt so damned guilty, then maybe she wouldn’t have moved and would have found some other way out.
The duck walked up on the grass and I thought about Kelly. I had talked with her on Wednesday. After hearing about what happened at the track, her father wanted her to come home and she had agreed. She promised if she ever got to Chicago again, she would call. If. Too many ifs lately. I needed to forget all of them and I was in the right place to do that. As I made my way back up the hill, my thoughts switched to Aunt Rose’s homemade Door County cherry pie.
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Chapter 1
He slowly opened the eye that wasn’t buried in the pillow and squinted toward the clock on the table next to the bed. Eleven—something. Couldn’t quite make out the minute hand. But it didn’t matter—he had no intention of staying awake. The hum of Saturday morning car traffic drifted up to the second-floor bedroom.
He’d go out and get the late edition of the papers and see what they had to say this time. Two weeks ago, they had just referred to him as a “deranged killer”. Maybe after two bodies they would have more respect. The papers hadn’t said anything about the coins. That had made him angry. He had put a lot of thought into that—his planning deserved recognition. And they should be thanking him, not calling him deranged.
Everybody treated him like he was stupid. He didn’t have a college degree, something his wife kept throwing in his face. But he didn’t know anyone who knew as much about history. He’d show them.
He had forgotten to pull down the shade when he went to bed, and the sunlight sent a stabbing pain to the back of his head. Shaking his head vigorously, he tried to get rid of the ache. As usual, it didn’t work. He always woke up with a headache. Enough alcohol and anyone would. He considered pulling down the shade, but found he couldn’t move anything but his eyelid, which had already closed.
Chapter 2
Why do you watch these dumb game shows?”
“Hey, you’re sitting in my chair, eating my corned beef, extra lean by the way, drinking my beer, and you got the nerve to criticize?” Lieutenant Stanley Powolski, one of Chicago’s finest, brought the bottle of Schlitz to his lips and took a long drink followed by a good-sized bite of a sandwich.
Spencer shook his head. “Stosh, this is American mediocrity at its worst.”
“Aw, wadda you know. It ain’t mediocre. I learn somethin’ new all the time.”
“Stosh, there has to be something better on.” The show went to a commercial for hemorrhoid relief. “See, I was right, this is better.”
“Sometimes you’re a real pain in the ass.”
“Thanks. I try. You want another beer?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Spencer Manning got two beers from the kitchen, popped off the caps, set one down on Stosh’s tray, and sat back down.
“Anything new on the hooker killings?” Spencer asked.
Stosh shook his head and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He set the bottle down on the tray. “Nope. Hard to get anywhere on what we got. Tough to solve random killings.”
Spencer nodded. “Both on a Friday. Could that be a pattern?”
“Can’t call two things a pattern. Probably just coincidence.”
“Don’t believe in coincidence,” said Spencer. “You know, all this could be solved by legalizing prostitution and letting the government run it.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ve heard your bleeding heart nonsense. It’s the law, Spencer.”
“Yeah, well maybe the law is shortsighted. We spend millions of dollars trying to stop it, not to mention the thousands of man hours you could be using for real crime.”
“It is a real crime.”
“Who does it hurt?” asked Spencer.
“It hurts people who pick up disease, and it hurts the average citizen trying to live a good life. How would you like your neighborhood overrun with ladies of the evening and their clientele?”
“I agree, Stosh. You’re making my point for me.” He took a drink of beer. “If it were legalized, it could be run where it’s controlled. The women and their clients could be checked for disease
, the right precautions could be used, and the government could collect taxes on income that’s now swept under the table.”
Stosh gave him a disgusted look and shook his head. “You done?”
“No. Look at alcohol. All prohibition did was make a very good living for fellows like Capone and turn the streets of Chicago into a bloodbath. Look at the taxes now on a bottle of whiskey.”
Stosh said nothing.
“And you wouldn’t have two murders to solve.”
Stosh resettled himself in the chair and took a deep breath. “I’m not saying you’re right, and I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m saying it’s the law. I enforce the law. You change the law and I’ll enforce that.”
Spencer settled back into the chair and pulled up the footrest, knowing that was as much agreement as he would get out of Lieutenant Powolski. “Think there will be more?”
Stosh shrugged. “I hope not.” He paused. “Probably.”
“Any ideas about the coins?”
Stosh swallowed, wiped his mouth with the napkin, and put his empty plate on the tray. “And where would you have heard about coins, as if I need to ask?”
“Nothing I couldn’t get from the paper.” Spencer was guessing—he hadn’t read the paper.
“Sure you did. I’d rather you get it from the paper instead of one of my detectives, but we haven’t released information on the coins. I’ll have to have a talk with Rosie.”
Spencer laughed. “Stosh, you know if there was something I wanted to know, anybody there would help, including you, so don’t pick on Rosie. It’s not her fault she can’t resist my charming personality.”
Rosie Lonnigan was a red-headed Irish girl Spencer had known since he was a kid. They had gone through the police academy together. Rosie had joined the force and Spencer, feeling frustrated by a system that seemingly gave criminals more rights than victims, had become a private detective.
“I could make a comment about your charming personality. Don’t be bothering Rosie about this case.”
Spencer’s eyes narrowed. “Is there something more to tell?”
Stosh waved his hand in the air. “Now what kind of a detective would you be if you got all your information from the cops? Why don’t you go out and do some detecting?”
“Okay. Just trying to help. You decide you want this thing solved, give me a call.”
“I wish your dad was here. He’d whoop your butt down to size,” said Stosh with a smile.
“I wish my dad was here too, Stosh.”
Stosh sighed and frowned. “Sorry, kid. That was the wrong thing to say.”
“That’s okay, Stosh. I know what you meant.”
Spencer Manning’s father was a captain on the Chicago police force, well-liked by all. Stosh had become like an uncle to Spencer. A year ago, Spencer’s parents had been killed in a car accident that was a warning gone wrong.
“Seriously, Stosh, don’t you feel frustrated because you can’t do anything till after the guy strikes?”
“Yes, of course. But as long as the working girls won’t stay off the streets, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Everybody’s gotta make a living.” Spencer stretched his legs, yawned, and rolled his head around, stretching the neck muscles. “I’d better hit the road.”
“At eight o’clock? I was hoping for a game of gin. I need a chance to make back some of that money you cheated me out of.”
“Not tonight. I’ll take a rain check.”
“Hot date?”
“No. I was out last night doing surveillance. I’m beat.”
They both got out of their chairs.
“Good luck this weekend,” said Spencer. “Maybe he’ll stay home.”
“I hope so. It’s been Friday night both times, with two weeks in between.”
“Anything else the same?”
Stosh rubbed the chair arm with two fingers. “Both just off Broadway. Five blocks apart. Both stabbed and left in an alley; carved up pretty bad. We’ll have extra men out, but you can’t be everywhere.”
“And then there’s the coins,” Spencer added with a slight smile.
Stosh buzzed his lips. “Memory like an elephant.”
Spencer shrugged. “Just trying to help.”
“Join the force. Then you can help all you want. Till then, I get to know something you don’t. And hopefully all the wackos out there won’t know either.”
“You’ll get him, Stosh.”
“Sooner or later. Let’s hope it’s sooner.”
They met in the center of the room and shared a bear hug. “Stay safe, Spencer. Your daddy left me in charge of you. I might’ve declined if I’d known what a chore that’d be.”
Spencer winked. “Got to keep you on your toes. See you Saturday.”
“Good. We’ll watch some baseball.”
“Yes sir!” replied Spencer with enthusiasm.
Spencer had spent Saturday afternoons and a weeknight with Stosh almost every week since his parents died. It was time both of them enjoyed. Time to relax, share some thoughts, and hold onto the past.
Stosh got Spencer’s jacket, tossed it to him, and saw him to the door. “I won’t tell that harem of yours that you spend two days a week with your Polish babysitter.”
Spencer laughed and waved as he headed to the car.
Stosh didn’t close the door until the car started. As he was cleaning up the living room, he let his thoughts wander to Spencer’s folks and how they had made him a member of their family. He knew Spencer was capable of taking care of himself, but he also worried because this wasn’t a safe business. You never knew what you were getting into. And Spencer sometimes let his emotions run ahead of his common sense.
Spencer let the Mustang idle for a minute and then backed out of the drive and headed home. When he had first hung up his P.I. sign, he was living and working out of the same rooms on the south side. Last fall he had moved into his parents’ house on the north side and confronted the ghosts shimmering in his dreams. They were visiting less often.
His folks had left him the house and enough money to be very comfortable for the rest of his life. But he’d give it all up just for the chance to have said goodbye.
Spencer knew that the killer had left a stack of coins next to the victims. And he also knew that those coins had been stacked in what looked like a pattern. But his source hadn’t said what the pattern was. He didn’t want Stosh to know that he knew even that much. There would have been hell to pay at the station—probably for Rosie, and it wasn’t Rosie who had told him.
Chapter 3
The bailiff picked a file off the desk next to the bench where Judge McCalister was trying to stay awake through the Tuesday afternoon call. There was little dissension, and they were making good progress, and might even make it through all the cases on the docket.
“The State of Illinois versus Laura Douglas,” called the bailiff.
Benjamin rose from the wooden bench in the third row of the courtroom. “Yes, your Honor. Benjamin Tucker of the Public Defender’s Office representing Miss Douglas.” He took Miss Douglas’ arm and almost pulled her up off the bench. He had told her to dress conservatively. She wore a red miniskirt and a white blouse. He hadn’t expected much better; she was young and scared. He led her to the bar to the left of the bench. The bailiff handed the file to the judge, who took a minute to look it over.
Judge McCalister, peering over the top rim of his glasses, looked down at Benjamin and his client. He gazed down at the red miniskirt. Benjamin wondered what his reaction was, but knew it really didn’t matter. This was just another case, and the words coming out of the judge’s mouth would be the same as they had always been.
“Young lady, you are charged with prostitution,” he said sternly, adding a scowl and a shake of his head. “Are you aware of the charge?”
She didn’t answer. Benjamin leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“Yes, your Honor,” she said meekly.
“Um hmm.�
� He looked back at the folder. “How old are you?”
“Nineteen,” she whispered.
“You can speak up, Miss Douglas. No one here is going to bite your head off.”
She nodded.
The judge knew exactly how old she was. He could read. But he always asked. Benjamin didn’t see the point.
“You are charged with one count of prostitution. How do you plead?”
Laura Douglas looked down at the floor and didn’t answer. Again Benjamin prodded her.
“Not guilty, your Honor.” Her voice was a bit louder, but not much.
The judge put down the file and shifted in his chair.
“Counselor, you are supposed to counsel your client before your appearance in my court, not during.”
“Yes, your Honor. I apologize.”
This girl should have been in school somewhere, not in a courtroom. And no matter how much Ben counseled her, she would still have been afraid to answer.
“Next time, please be prepared.”
“Yes, your Honor. I certainly will be.”
“Are you aware that the charge of prostitution carries a maximum sentence of six months and a maximum fine of $2,500?”
“Yes, your Honor,” answered Benjamin. “However, we respectfully dispute the charges.”
Judge McCalister looked bored and held his hand out, palm up.
“Your Honor, we contend that Miss Douglas was only talking to someone in a car through an open window. What she was doing had nothing to do with prostitution.”
The judge looked skeptical. “She was talking about the weather, I presume?”
